Page 53 of Surfer's Paradise

Or maybe she wished she weren’t here at all.

Isaac, hands tucked into his pockets, too damn relaxed, glanced at her. “So, you still living at that place on Cherry?”

Rosie hesitated.

Then, lightly, too lightly, “No. I moved.”

Isaac tilted his head, suspicious already. “To where?”

“Nearby.”

A pause.

A slow blink.

Shit.

Isaac always fucking knew when she was hiding something.

His voice dropped, edged with that impatient, low-command tone he used when he was zeroing in on something.

“What’s your address?”

Rosie sighed, tightening her grip on her shoes.

“Isaac, please don’t.”

He stopped walking.

Just stopped, right there in the sand, making her stop too.

And suddenly, it was just them.

The night stretching wide. The ocean behind them, restless and endless, crashing up against a truth she didn’t want to say out loud.

Isaac turned fully toward her, brown eyes sharp. “Rosie.”

Fuck.

She blew out a slow, shaky breath. “I let my apartment go four months ago.”

His jaw ticked.

“I sold everything I own,” she continued, forcing herself to keep her voice even. “Took a side job. Still couldn’t afford rent. Let alone food. Supplies.”

His stare was unmoving, unreadable.

“So you’re homeless,” he said, flat, matter-of-fact.

Rosie’s stomach twisted. “No, I’m staying in the studio.”

Isaac blinked. “The studio,” he repeated slowly, like the words didn’t make sense.

She swallowed. “It’s a small warehouse rental. Me and a few other artists split it. It’s just temporary.”

Isaac’s face was stone. “Temporary.”

“We have a couch,” she rushed out, trying to make it sound less dire. “A full bathroom. It’s fine, Isaac.”

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